


Acting Like A Fool Around You

by Kissed_by_Circe



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rhaegar Won, Mystery knight, Skinny Dipping, girls just want to have fun, midnight swim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24721111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissed_by_Circe/pseuds/Kissed_by_Circe
Summary: During a feast at Riverrun, a few young ladies decide to go skinny dipping, and when Sansa finds herself naked and abandoned by her friends, a handsome young man comes to her rescue.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 221





	Acting Like A Fool Around You

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd, not edited, not sure if it survived whatever my brother-in-law did with my computer 😅  
> Partially inspired by [this post](https://ganymxde.tumblr.com/post/190190367772/i-mean-im-no-expert-on-tudor-fashion-and-the) and [this post](https://buckeed.tumblr.com/post/612781301486010368/jaskier-his-many-many-many-doublets)

Her sister isn’t the only one with wolf blood flowing through her veins, Sansa thinks with a hint of stubbornness that she barely recognizes in herself. She’s always been the good one, the perfect lady, and she can barely believe what she’s doing right now, but she has to admit that it feels good to do something as scandalous as this. Her father always recalls his sister’s pranks and games with a fondness she craves, and her own sister’s never been reprimanded for all the trouble she gets in with her wild ways, and if he finds out and wants to punish her over something as silly as doing what her mother did, too, as a child, then she won’t accept it.

She’s always been the easy one, the good one, and she deserves to do something crazy for once, instead of standing out there, telling everyone that they’ll get in trouble like Jeyne Poole would do, or covering her eyes and whining about how they’ll be found out like little Beth Cassel might, and she’s tired of it. She wants to be like Lady Margaery, who’s elegant, and witty, and bold, and everything Sansa always dreamed about being, and she won’t let some unspoken rules about what a lady should be like, or the voice of her septa, nagging in the back of her head, stop her from having fun with the little group of ladies and handmaidens that Lady Margaery has invited out here.

The girls behind her giggle, and she makes sure not to misstep as she leads them down to the riverbank, her thin satin slippers touching rocks, and finally, pebbles, and she feels a bit wobbly, but she still takes a long, _long_ sip from the bottle Lady Elinor offers her. “Do you do this often, when you’re at home?” she asks, trying not so sound like a bore, and Lady Elinor nods with a grin and drunkenly grabs her arm.

“We always have so much fun; you wouldn’t believe it. There’s always a ball, or a festival, or even a masquerade in Highgarden, and we have pleasure barges, and theatre plays, and hunts every week… and Lady Margaery loves doing funny things like this. One time, we all went to the Arbor, and Lady Margaery led us when we raided Desmera’s father wine cellar… and we went to the beach and Alla almost…” Sansa doesn’t find out what almost happened with Lady Alla, because Margaery comes over to them and grabs Sansa’s hands.

“I hope Elinor here isn’t telling you horrible stories,” she says with a smile that’s a bit too broad, and Sansa shakes her head. “But you have to visit us sometime, dear,” Margaery offers, “to see it for yourself.” Sansa shrugs, remembering how she hid behind a curtain when Lady Margaery’s father tried to convince her mother of an alliance between their houses. She knows that the Tyrell’s hope to make Margaery the next Lady Stark, and that they need a wife for their own heir, and she’s not sure what to make of Lady Margaery’s kindness, or if it will fail when she finds out that Robb is already betrothed, and that her parents do not want a southern alliance.

Next to her, Wylla has already stripped off her dress, shoes and stockings, and toys with the hem of her chemise, looking around with her lower lip caught between her teeth. “Come on, don’t be a prude!” Lyra yells from the water, her own shift soaked with murky water and her wet hair clinging to her face, and the Tyrell girls giggle, while Lady Desmera wades into the water. “You can leave your shift on,” she says with a laugh, “mine covers my freckles, and yours will keep us wondering if you’re green all over!”

The other girls almost choke on their laughter, and Wylla’s face turns a pretty shade of crimson, but she keeps her head high, proud as always, and looks at them over the tip of her nose. “Well, you can keep wondering, if you want, but the only one who’ll see if I’m green between my legs is my future husband,” she counters with a haughty smile that makes them laugh even more at her scandalous words, and Lyra, spitting out some water, shrugs. “You don’t want to bathe naked with strangers, just like we do, but Wylla and I’ve had our fair share of swimming contests, and I can tell you that her ass is green. As. Grass.”

At some point, the laughter dies down, and Alla, pinning up her braids to keep them from getting wet, mumbles something about northern girls not being pretty enough to run around naked. A sweet, docile lady would answer a challenge like that with some pretty words, but she doesn’t feel like a sweet, docile, boring little lady right now, and she fears that she might regret doing this, but she fears the regret of _not_ doing this, of looking back at this summer night, this whole festival, with a feeling of regret over not doing everything, experiencing everything, trying everything, more, and so she takes a deep breath.

Wylla gasps, and Lady Margaery looks at her with a new kind of respect, a respect that wasn’t there before, when she grabs the hem of her shift and pulls it over her head. She tries to throw it on the rocks on top of the other’s clothes, on heaps of silk and wool and linen and velvet, as casually as possible, and she forces herself to walk down to the water’s edge slowly. Her arms hang by her sides, her hair falls down her back, but she won’t cover herself, not with everyone looking at her like this. She’s the bravest out of the bunch, she’s not ashamed of her body, and she won’t hide it from a few maidens that are barely older than her.

She meets everyone’s gaze with steel in her own, a silent challenge, and the awkward quietness of their group only breaks when she’s in the water. Somehow, the carefree, giddy feeling from the beginning resumes, aided by jokes and wine and the heat still lingering in the soft summer air, and they’re splashing around like children, when Lyra perks up like a guard dog, and mutters a curse. “Shit, there’s someone up there,” she calls out, and a group of riders suddenly appear above them, on the path leading back to Riverrun, dark figures barely recognizable against the backdrop of the castle if they weren’t bathed in silvery moonlight.

Around her, the other girls squeal, and dash out of the water, grabbing blindly around the heap of clothes and running off into the woods, but Sansa stays in the water. Her friends and the Tyrell cousins are all in their shifts, and they’ll surely get dressed in the shadows under the trees and return to the castle with wet hair and soaked stockings, but she prefers to stay in the murky water that hides the paleness of her bare limbs, to running around naked in front of strangers. Once these men, whoever they may be, are gone, she’ll get out and get dressed and return, she thinks to herself, but it appears like they don't think of leaving just yet.

Instead, one of them jumps of his horse and peers down over the rocks, trying to get a look at her, and she crosses her arms before her chest and lets herself sink a bit, until the water is up to her chin. The men talk, and there’s a laugh or two, before they ride off, but the one that’s looking down is staying behind, lingering at the point where the road meets the rocky slope leading down to the river, and then, to her horror, he starts walking down, trying to find his way down the path, barely visible between the rocks.

Gravel grates under his boots, and he stands on the riverbank, looking from her to the woods where the other girls have disappeared, and the moon is bright enough for her to see that he is quite handsome with his bashful expression and the dark hair. She can’t make out any details about his form but the silhouette of a sword hanging low on his hip. Maybe he’s one of the dozens of hedge knights and sellswords that crowd the castle, hoping for a prize in tomorrow’s tourney, or looking for a lord that’s in need of men, but mostly he’s an annoyance right now.

“You don’t look like you’re drowning,“ he starts, and she has to stop herself from grinning at him, at how shy he looks when he’s scratching the back of his neck. His hair and his eyes are dark, but she finds herself wondering what shade they might have in the sunlight, if his eyes are blue or brown, and she sinks a bit deeper, even if he can’t see her blush in the low light. “–but do you need help?” he offers, and now she can’t help but smile at him. “Like my personal knight in shining armour?” she asks back, a teasing lilt in her voice, and she finds that she likes being like this, a bit more cheeky, a bit more casual and a bit more _brave_ in a way she usually isn’t, and she finds that she likes the way he looks at his boots, all cute and sheepish, a few strands of his shoulder length hair falling into his face.

“Um, no, but it looks like your friends kinda left you behind and I wanted to make sure that you’re not in trouble,” he explains, and she shrugs, which he can’t see of course. “They are probably laughing themselves to death right now, on their way back to the castle,” she answers, and he nods in understanding. “Well, I could escort you up, if you’d like, to make sure you get back safely,” he offers, and it is a kind offer, but she grimaces nevertheless.

“I didn’t run off with them when we noticed you and your companions because they were wearing their shifts and I was – _not_ ,” she admits, and he laughs at her. It’s both charming and vexing, and she almost groans when he examines the few things left of what was a pile of clothes before her so-called friends grabbed whatever they could and bolted. He picks and holds up a belt and a single stocking and even a handkerchief, but there’s no dress, no shift, not even smallclothes, left, and her head starts spinning, because she cannot stay here all night until Wylla or Lyra or one of the girls from the Reach manage to put two and two together and bring her something, and she sure as hell isn’t going to walk to the castle, and all the way through the gates and courtyards and hallways to her chamber in her nameday suit.

Apparently, her not-quite-knight-in-shining armour is thinking about the same problem, and he startles her when he mutters _fuck it_ and shrugs off his doublet. The shirt underneath is just as dark as the rest of his clothes, and when he pulls it out of his breeches and over his head, she gasps a bit. “You can wear it until you get your own things back,” he mumbles, and she’s not sure how he can be both bashful and confident at the same time, but she’s pretty sure that she likes it.

There’s a moment of awkwardness, a short silence, a soft _thank you_ and a nod and he’s turning around while she gets out of the water, grabbing the shirt from his outstretched hand and pulling it on as fast as she can. It’s not too different from her own, she thinks, just as wide and billowing as some she owns and, _thankfully_ , long enough to cover at least the most important parts, reaching down to the middle of her thighs – she’s tall, and if he were shorter than her there might have been a problem on that part, but as it is, she only has to hold the front together to keep it from gaping open and revealing her chest, and that’s good enough for her right now.

The tanned expanse of his back, lean but defined, interrupted by a few scars, distracts her for a moment, and when she finds her tongue again, she mumbles another _thank you_. Turning towards her again, revealing more scars and a chest, a ribcage, a stomach that she finds she’s itching to touch, he puts on his doublet again, buttoning it up this time to hide that he’s bare underneath it. He points up to where his horse is waiting patiently.

In the silvery light of the moon, the animal is just as dark as it’s master, and she has to admit that he makes a rather dashing black rider in the darkness.

They don’t talk on the way back to the road, there’s only their breathing, forcefully even when he puts his hands on her to help her up the path, or when she stumbles and grabs him. His big, but slender, calloused, but gentle hands on her hips and on her bare thigh when he heaves her into the saddle could be her undoing, and when he takes the cloak that’s tied to the saddlebag and drapes it around her shoulders, the material heavy with his scent, his hand lingers on her knee. It’s just a moment, before he seems to remember himself, and he pulls his hand back like he’s burned, but she’s close to purring like a content cat when he mounts after her, and wraps his arms around her so that he can take up the reins.

“Thanks again,” she whispers, just to break the silence that hangs between them like the headiness that announces a summer storm, “you really are a knight in shining armour, like the ones in the songs.” She doesn’t know if he’s a real knight or just a common guard or solider, but it feels like the right thing to say, and he chuckles a bit at that. “And which would I be? Aemon, Serwyn, Forian, Artos, Bael?” he asks her, jokingly, and she grins. She likes it when people know the songs and the heroes of old that she likes so much, and she teases back.

“Well, you found me in the water like Florian found Jonquil.” “So you are calling me a fool,” he sighs, but she can hear him grin, and she finds that she does quite like him. “You have to admit that it’d be rather fitting considering our current situation,” she mumbles with a grin of her own, leaning back and liking the way his arms feel around her. “I do feel like a fool,” he whispers, a low, husky sound that makes a shiver run down her spine, and he pulls her closer when he feels it and wraps his cloak tighter around her.

“I think that most men turn into fools in your presence,” he adds, his hot breath ghosting over the shell of her ear, the shadow of a grin barely visible when she turns her head to look at him. She has a feeling that he doesn’t mean her beauty when he says that, and she’s never understood why her aunts ran off with men above or below their stations, why some women fall for men that aren’t right for them, but _gods_ , that smile and the way he looks at her may be her undoing. If he asked her for a kiss, or a touch, she wouldn’t know what to do.

She has a duty, and a reputation, and wants, and she finally understands how her aunts must’ve felt before they disgraced themselves. They reach the castle before they can say more on the subject of fools and maidens from old songs, and she’s both grateful and disappointed. The courtyard is filled with flickering lights and a few people seeking fresh air, the faces of lowly knights and giggling maidens flushed from drinking and dancing, servants carrying barrels and trays of food to the great hall and guards looking on with longing on their faces.

The feast in the great hall is probably at its height, and she wonders what would’ve happened if she hadn’t been sent to bed hours ago, if the younger ladies and maidens hadn’t met in the gardens to drink more wine, stolen from the cellar, if Lady Margaery hadn’t decided to sneak out. Would she be sitting next to Willas Tyrell, listening to all the advantages Highgarden has to offer, or dancing with her uncle’s friends, or entertaining one of her cousins under the watchful glare of an aunt? Would she notice the handsome knight dressed all in black entering the hall, or riding in tomorrow’s tourney?

Her thoughts are interrupted when the horse comes to a halt. He swings himself of the horse and lands gracefully on the cobbled ground, and when his hands settle on her waist, lifting her out of the saddle like she weights nothing, her body brushing against his, she is speechless once more. They’re so close to each other, her body caged between his and the horse, his hands still resting on her waist, his face only a breath away from hers, and he draws a deep breath, opens his mouth to speak and –

A voice calls from the darkness, a familiar northern timbre, and none other than Jory steps out of the arcades, his gaze flittering from her face to the hands on her waist, and she quickly steps away from her handsome stranger. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, child?” the older man asks, and, taking in her state of undress, he comes closer, his hand settling on the hilt of his sword. The man next to her takes on a defensive stance, and she is quick to reassure Jory that everything is alright.

“We – that is, some of us girls – snuck out and I lost my things and this man here was kind enough to bring me back here,” she tries to explain, and Jory sighs in expiration. “You’re worse than your sister,” he mumbles, looking upwards like he’s hoping for divine guidance, and turns to the stranger. “Thank you for bringing her back, ser,” he tells him, while grabbing her arm to pull her away – hopefully to her chambers, and not to her mother or her septa – and she struggles against his grip for a moment. “I’ll give you your things back tomorrow before the tourney,” she promises him, and they smile at each other in a secretive way when Jory drags her away. “Please tell me that Beth isn’t involved in any of this,” Jory groans, but Sansa only looks back at the handsome man in black.

The next night, she’s wearing a gown of silk and brocade, and he’s wearing a crown, but when he leads her across the dancefloor, he looks just as roguishly handsome, and she has just as many butterflies fluttering around in her stomach.


End file.
